


Lover Dearest

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Inspired by Music, John gets angry, John-centric, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, TEH Fix-it, because he does a lot of talking, how does one tag?, then he gets softe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8570539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: Sherlock returns. It's so easy for John to fall back into him. Though, this time, just a bit more fully than before.





	

_This place is a hole, but I don’t want to go. I wish we could stay here forever, alone. This time that we waste, but I still love your taste. Don’t let her take my place. Don’t just sit there._

It all happened so fast. One second it was John, alone at the table at the Landmark. It was so easy for Sherlock to slip into the character of a French waiter, but he had hoped that it would at least draw John’s eyes to him. It didn’t. And the next thing he knew… _she_ was there. He knew what was happening from the look on John’s face, but still, he had to try. This was the whole reason he came back, the whole reason he lived, he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

“Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking.” Sherlock said, his faux French accent still thick. “It has the quality of the old with some of the color of the new.”

“No, sorry, not now, please.” John said, not looking up at him. Sherlock grit his teeth briefly. _Look at me. See me. I’m right here._

“Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers…” I’m not a stranger, John. Look at me. “...when suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend.” _But I’m not that anymore. I’m so much more. I could be so much more if you would just_ look.

“No, look, seriously…” John tore his eyes from the woman across from him for a brief second, “could you just…?” He jerked back in his chair, eyes wide in disbelief. _Believe it. I’m right here. Finally._

Sherlock smiled wryly, “Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters.” 

He watched as John struggled with himself. He struggled with the fact that he wanted to be overjoyed at the fact that Sherlock is alive, and the anger that he left him for so long. He could see tears in John’s eyes and his own heart lurched at the fact. _This isn’t how it was supposed go. You were supposed to smile. We were supposed to laugh._ All the rigidity in John’s body spoke volumes, though. He was upset. Angry. Hurt. “Well, short version? Not dead.”

The rest of the conversation went by in a blur. Sherlock couldn’t remember anything that was said because he was too laser focused on how wrong everything was. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor of the Landmark, John’s hands around his throat, legs straddling his waist, so different from how he imagined that. Then the rest of the night went by faster than he could blink. John had battered and broken him, and somehow Sherlock couldn’t blame him. What Sherlock didn’t expect though, was the door to 221B opening about an hour and a half later. 

John stood in the doorway to their-- his-- flat, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sherlock faced him, but didn’t say anything, just looked at John, waiting for him to start. Through clenched teeth, John spoke, “Bathroom. Now.” Sherlock bolted upright, making himself wince, and did as he was told. John followed after him.

It was so silent. Nothing but rough breathing and tension so thick you couldn’t even wade through it. Sherlock spoke, voice quiet, “John, I--”

John held up a hand, silencing him, “Shut up. Not yet. Sit down, shirt off.” Sherlock cocked his head to the side, confused. “You’re back, Sherlock. Show me your back.”

Sherlock nodded and unbuttoned his shirt mechanically, letting it fall from his shoulders to the floor. He sat on the toilet, facing away from John, showing the wounds with stitches split to him. He heard John’s intake of breath, sharp and pointed, and felt his eyes on his back, “You let me push you..” John said matter-of-factly, “You let me split—Christ, Sherlock.” Sherlock closed his eyes and heard rummaging behind him, John going for the first aid kit they kept here for situations just like this. “Don’t move.” John barked, setting to work.

The bite of antiseptic and pinch of new stitches were small prices to pay for John’s hands on his skin, still gentle despite all the anger coursing through him. Once the last stitch was clipped, John’s hands were off him and the threatening silence resumed. “You wanna tell me what happened now? No lying?” John said. His words were sharp and Sherlock wagered they hurt more than the wounds on his back.

“John, if I told you, I don’t know if you’d believe me. Or if you’d ever look at me the same again. And I don’t know if I could bear that.” Sherlock whispered, still facing away from John, tears gathering in his eyes.

John sniffed, still angry, “Try me.”

“Moriarty, he…” he took a deep breath, “He had a gun trained on you. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but…” he trailed off, throat constricting.

“But what, Sherlock?”

“Just you would’ve been enough.”

John was quiet for a moment, “Turn around,” he practically hissed. Sherlock did. “So instead of telling me that there was a gun trained on me, instead of trusting my instincts, instead of telling me to stay where I was, you let me go off so you could deal with a madman on your own? What the hell were you thinking, Sherlock? You know I could’ve helped you with all of this! If you would’ve just let me in!”

“And put you in more danger than you were already in?” Sherlock screamed back, “Put your life on the line? No. I would never do that to you. I’d rather die than put you in danger!”

“Well then, why don’t you?” John cried, malice of all thought. He froze once the words left his mouth. Sherlock sat stock still in the wake of them, more tears burning behind his eyes. He couldn’t stop them from falling. John was down on his knees in front of him in an instant, hands finally falling out of fists and coming up to gently cup his face, “Shit, no, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. Come here.” John gently pulled him from the toilet to his lap on the floor. “I didn’t mean it. Sh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock clutched tightly to John, tears staining the front of his shirt. John’s hand was in his hair, holding his head tight to his chest, thumb moving soothingly, “Sh, Sherlock, I didn’t mean it.” Sherlock could hear John’s own tears in his voice, “These last two years have been hell without you. I never thought I could have this again. I want to be so damn angry with you right now. I want to haul you to your feet and shake you and ask you ‘How? How could you possibly do this to me?’ But I won’t. Because right now all I want to do is hold you close and make sure you’re real. I want to make sure you’re breathing and I want it to stay that way.”

“I wanted you alive, John.” Sherlock said, voice hoarse, “It didn’t matter what happened to me while I was away, I just wanted you safe. And I thought that…”

John’s heart constricted. It didn’t need to be said. He knew what Sherlock meant. He leaned in close, pressed his lips to the other man’s temple, and whispered, “I should have. I’ve fucked everything up, good and proper, now haven’t I?”

Sherlock suddenly came back to himself, suddenly realizing the state they were in. He unclenched his fists and began pushing on John’s chest, trying desperately to get out of his hold, trying to open his mouth to speak, to tell John to go back to Mary, back to the life he chose, the one he would’ve chosen, no matter what Sherlock did that day at Bart’s. But…

John held him close, ignoring all the writhing and fighting, not a touch of worry on his face, “Sherlock. Sherlock, easy. Just because I’ve fucked things up doesn’t mean I can’t fix it.”

Sherlock’s brain still couldn’t wrap around what was being said to him, “Of course you can. Go home, John. You love her. Don’t worry. I understand.”

John shook his head and stood to his feet, still holding Sherlock. He carried him through the adjoining door to Sherlock’s bedroom and laid him carefully on the bed, climbing over top of him. “No. I don’t think you do understand.” John said, and leaned down and kissed him.

Sherlock instantly melted under John’s lips, moving to wrap his arms around John’s neck. His mind raced for a brief moment, until John’s tongue ran along the seam of his lips, making him gasp. All other thoughts were pushed away as his mind was filled of nothing but John. 

John pulled back and caught Sherlock’s eyes, “Listen to me. As much as you can.”

Sherlock shook his head, “ _Sometimes I wish you would leave me._ ” he said, vehement. 

John was stunned for a moment before leaning back in to pepper kisses along Sherlock's jaw, “ _But I'm not sick of you yet._ ” he replies before latching onto Sherlock's lips again. 

He nipped at Sherlock's jaw, moving his way to his ear, “ _Is that as good as it gets?_ ” Sherlock whispered, breathless. 

John bit lightly on Sherlock's earlobe, “ _I'll just try to hide it, or I could slip into you._ ”

“ _It's so easy to come back into you._ ” Sherlock whispered, his voice choked. He wrapped his long limbs around John, holding him close. John could feel him trembling, nearly breaking apart in his arms and it broke his heart. He rolled to the side, landing on the bed, and pulled Sherlock close to him, carding a hand through the unruly curls.

“Sh, my love, I know. I’ve made a mistake. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known better than to doubt you. You had a plan. You always have a plan. But I want to make you a promise right here, right now. Will you let me?” Sherlock nodded, forehead rubbing against John’s sternum, “There is no where else on this godforsaken planet I’d rather be than right here. I’m angry and hurt, of course, but that’s just a bump in the road that got me to how incandescently happy I am that you’re alive. 

“And I promise you, Sherlock Holmes, right here in this bed, that I will right these wrongs, because the way I see it, if I would’ve gone through with tonight, I would’ve caused so much more hurt to you. And I’m not blind, even when I’m angry. She means nothing, you have to know that. I loved her out of necessity. She was a very poor substitute for you.” His voice grew choked as he continued on, “Say you’ll let me fix what I’ve done?”

Sherlock’s arms gripped him tighter, and his knees slotted between John’s thighs, “John, please. She’ll know it’s because of me. She’ll know and she’ll be upset. You can’t just throw away what you were building.”

John tried to loosen Sherlock’s arms from around him, tried to look him eyes, but Sherlock held tight, whimpering, “ _Don’t you leave me. Don’t you leave me. Don’t you…_ ” His blunt nails dug into John’s back, even through his shirt. He couldn’t resist holding him ever closer.

“Sh, sh, sh, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere, I just want to look at you. I want you to know I mean it when I say this.” Sherlock sniffed and relented slightly, loosening his grip, “I don’t give a bloody fuck if she’s upset. She can kick and scream all she wants. The bloody queen herself can come and tell me I have to stay with her and I still won’t do it. I’ve waited three and half years to have this. I’m not giving this up. Not for anything.”

Sherlock looked up at him with those ever mesmerizing verdigris eyes and John held that gaze until the urge to kiss Sherlock overtook him. He poured everything he had into that kiss. I love you. I waited for you as long as I could. I waited until I was spent from it. I waited and I looked and I never found you and I thought it was over. I thought you were a hallucination. I thought every part of you was a dream. I thought I had made you up in my head. He pulled back for air, “I love you, I love you, I love you. I loved you then, I love you now, and I’m fairly certain I’ll love you forever. I don’t care what I’ve done, I don’t care what you’ve done, I don’t care what rains upon us. I will fight tooth and nail, hell and high water, just for you.” 

Sherlock looked at a loss for words, so John just pulled their foreheads together and held him close, occasionally bestowing chaste kisses, occasionally murmuring, “I don’t know how my heart ever beat without you. I feel like I haven’t drawn a proper breath in ages. There’s been trillions of pounds on my shoulders and they’ve all been lifted. I have you, love. I have you. My lover dearest. My everything. My lightning quick wit consulting detective. I will tear this world apart to keep you safe. My love. My one and only.”

John’s phone rang an hour later, and Sherlock had fallen asleep on his chest. He let it ring out. He knew who it was, and she would have to make her own guesses. This was the end of them, just like it is the beginning of the rest of his life. The rest of _their_ lives. At long last.


End file.
